


Seven Days Light

by NewWonder



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Brownham, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Manipulation, Matthew is a true knight in shining scrubs, May Or May Not Be Continued, Minor Character Death, Murder, Obsession, Pining, Princess Will is grudgingly impressed, Watching Someone Sleep, a bit of unrequited willana, gay hawks, hinted chillywilly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-17 23:17:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1406266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewWonder/pseuds/NewWonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the prison, Will asks for a different favor. Matthew is only too happy to oblige.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blue Jay

_“I need a favor.”_

_“I’m always happy to do a favor for a friend. Just say the words.”_

_“I want you… to get me out of here.”_

 

The apartment was small and nearly surgically clean, not a single speck of dust on the old floor and bland furniture. Will with his prison stink felt sorely out of place.

“Make yourself at home,” Matthew waved his hand—the very picture of a hospitable host. “The food’s in the fridge, the couch’s all yours. It’s not exactly comfortable, but at least you’ll be sleeping on actual sheets. With a pillow, mind you.”

Will liked the idea. He couldn’t help but feel anxious, though.

“Won’t they suspect you?”

“Whom, poor old stupid me?” Matthew lisped, and grinned before continuing in his normal voice: “Gideon must have heard out little—chat; the day after that, Chilton had grilled me for an hour. But I don't think he believes I have it in me to boldly break out a dangerous inmate,” for a second, his face grew slack, jaw slightly hanging; and then he smiled, thin and sharp. “Dr. Chilton is a _very_ apt psychiatrist. I don’t think he could be wrong—or at least, _he_ definitely doesn’t.”

“Gideon. That’s why they doubled the security,” Will hadn’t necessarily harbored any hope after their talk—why would his nurse get him out of jail, even if he happened to also be his secret admirer? Or rather, _Hannibal’s_ unknowing secret admirer.

When Will saw the new nurse and guards, though, his nonexistent hope quietly fizzled out. His last chance for a reckoning, gone—just like that.

So Will was surprised all the more when he woke up tonight and saw Matthew standing by the door of his cell, a small splatter of dark stains barely standing out against the white of his uniform in the dim light.

_The door of his cell, wide open._

“After you,” Matthew theatrically bowed, stretching his hand out.

And Will got up on slightly wobbling knees, and stepped out. Matthew followed him with his eyes, then locked the cell. The cameras were still on the ceiling, but Will felt their blindness with his skin, crawling with the chill of close freedom.

“Come on, hurry up,” Matthew could be very swift and quiet when he wanted to; and Will couldn't do anything else but follow.

 

“What are you going to do with me now?” Will asked, and Matthew turned around, pulling his scrubs up. He had a very strong body; Will thought he noticed weights in the apartment. His ‘admirer’ probably wouldn’t even need a gun to kill his victims for his tributes to Will’s ‘crimes’. _(Hannibal certainly thought himself above guns.)_

Matthew Brown was younger than Hannibal, fitter, maybe even stronger. And he was a murderer.

And Will voluntarily invited himself into his house.

“Well, I suggest that you go take a shower. Not to be mean or anything, but you really need one,” Matthew started slipping off his pants, and Will averted his eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “Thanks. I’ll do just that.”

He did need a long hot shower. The prison was severely lacking in that department, among numerous others. As Will soaked under the hard jets of steaming water, scrubbing off the oil and stench, he wondered what he was going to do next.

Could he expose Hannibal on his own? Would he be able to find anything? Would anyone even listen to him before locking him up again, this time in a muzzle and a straightjacket?

Could he just kill Hannibal Lecter and be done with it, Will thought slightly hysterically. But he didn’t even have a gun, and he certainly wasn’t in the condition to take Hannibal one-on-one.

Beverly did have a gun. Look how well that turned out, Will thought and hit the wall with his fist.

He stared at his hand as the water drops on it grew pink. Then he hit the tile again, and again, and again.

Then he turned off the water, wrapped a worn towel around his waist and stepped out of the bathroom.

 

Matthew was in the living room, leafing through the takeout menus. He looked at Will as Will distractedly wiped his hair (he probably stained the towel red. Would have to apologize later), and said offhandedly:

“Found you something to wear for now. It may not fit perfectly, but I think we both can deal.”

Will stared at him. He saw the way Matthew gazed at him, just for a split second. That look wasn’t indifferent, and it wasn’t casual. The moment quickly passed, but Will recognized that stare. Maybe Chilton didn’t even realize he looked at Will that way, but Will saw it, and he didn’t like it.

He didn’t like this, right now.

But Matthew gave the impression of a man who knew exactly what he wanted—unlike Chilton. A man who wouldn’t hesitate to do anything, anything at all, to get what he desired, and who would actually make it in the end (also unlike Chilton.)

Will watched him very carefully as he picked up the clothes, but Matthew already seemed completely immersed in the menus.

 

He _knew_ Matthew was looking at him. Will felt the stare with his back, but when he turned around, Matthew seemed to be still preoccupied with the takeout.

“Why did you help me?” Will watched him carefully as he put on a T-shirt, but Matthew just shrugged.

“I wanted to.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“Do I need another?” Matthew smiled. He didn’t look like a hawk at all; he looked like a shark. Will nodded and bent down to pull up his _(Matthew’s)_ pants.

 

“Can you get me a gun?” Will asked after they ate. (Some generic Chinese, but still pure ambrosia after prison food.)

“Maybe. Why?”

“Will you do it?”

“Why would I do that?” Matthew asked back. He sounded so nonchalant, almost lazy.

“Because I want you to.” Will didn’t want to talk to this strange man anymore, didn’t want to see him.

Will wanted to see his dogs, and then Alana, and then maybe kill Hannibal.

He needed a gun.

But Matthew just opened a can of beer and stretched languidly on the couch, pulling out the remote. He didn’t put a shirt on; his muscles danced under the pale skin, and the flickering light from the TV colored his chest in bizarre shades of blue.

Will watched the news, then wandered out of the room. He really needed to sleep.

When he woke up he was trembling, and Matthew’s palm was on his forehead, the man’s fingers carding through his hair; gently, ever so gently.

“Shhh,” he cooed, the very picture of a model nurse. “It’s okay, you’re safe. You’re safe...”

Will shook off his hand, and Matthew’s face stretched in that unnerving smile.

“Back to yourself, I see,” he said in his normal voice. “Look what I got you.”

In his other palm, something dark dully glimmered—a comfortably familiar shape. Will froze.

“You brought me a gun?” he rasped.

“What does it look like, a garden gnome? The toy’s all yours, suit yourself.”

“Why did you do that—for me?” Will weighed the cold iron in his palm, habitually inspecting the barrel. The gun was clearly old but in decent condition, and fully loaded. Will supposed it would do.

“You asked,” Matthew shrugged. “’Night, I’m knackered.”

Will now had a gun, and Matthew was going to be sleeping in the next room. And the doors in the apartment didn’t have any locks on them.

Either Matthew was crazy, or trusting to a fault.

Or maybe he just knew Will wasn’t going to cut their ‘friendship’ short—at least, not yet.

Will listened to the sound of quiet, catlike steps as it faded and the bed in the adjacent room squeaked; then he closed his eyes.

That night, he didn’t dream of anything.


	2. Secret Slow Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dogs lick and bite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god thank you for the amazing feedback you lovely people you! You wanted more so I did my best. (Eh, not sure if succeeded.)

The days passed, long and sluggish, thick and viscous like molasses. The minutes stretched infinite, pointless like the spinning of dust in the sunlight, slowly going nowhere; and then suddenly the day was over and it was time for the evening news, for the takeout or Matthew’s plain, efficient cooking, and then Brown would take a shower and walk out stark naked save for a towel, and Will would idly ponder the purpose of the tattoos on his almost unnaturally pale chest and back. Then Matthew would say good night and go to bed—he was a firm believer in healthy sleep—and Will would stay awake until the darkest hour of the night, cogitating, planning, reflecting.

Only a week passed after Will was set free. It felt like a minute; it felt like an eternity. Every single second of it was filled with thoughts of Beverly, the way she was so pitilessly presented, with the same refined braggadocio Will had so often witnessed in the works of the Chesapeake Ripper. He tried not to think of alive Beverly, the person, colleague and friend that the Ripper’s museum exhibit once used to be, because it was hard—harder than Will could bear sometimes. He tried not to think about Alana, too; it hurt to recall the way she cared, or tried to, but refused to understand.

They were always as far from each other as a man and a woman could possibly be, and farther; their one kiss was a glance at that distance, one that showed how insurmountable it really was. Will never truly hoped for something real between them, and now less than ever; but Alana was his star of hope, as unreachable as she was beautiful—and Will couldn’t afford to lose his focus now for the sake of gazing into the distance.

Instead, he often thought of Hannibal, and Abel Gideon’s words.

They were both sickeningly smart, Gideon and Hannibal, but Gideon felt almost normal compared to Lecter, like he wasn’t much of a threat at all compared to what Hannibal was capable of. What Gideon said was reasonable, though. Hannibal Lecter was the most dangerous opponent one could possibly face; cunning, slippery, and utterly ruthless, changing his masks a dozen a minute.

And he was sincere, as much as it was possible for him. He said that he cared for Will, that he wanted Will’s friendship, and Will believed him. His love, though—that was a feeling as tainted and twisted as the soul it grew from, nearly unrecognizable as human. The thought of it made Will nauseous.

His present company did little for him to help forget the blood his memories were bathed in. Frankly, his host made him sick in his guts, and feigning friendliness towards the man was trying in ways court trials could never be. Fortunately, Brown spent a lot of time in the hospital, or exercising in the gym, or—being otherwise occupied. Will didn’t ask; he wasn’t sure he would like the answer. And Brown’s absence gave him his much needed solitude, so Will wasn’t about to complain.

If it weren’t for the company, though, Will would feel almost at home in this small shoddy place. While not exactly cozy, it was nonetheless tidy and quiet—everything the hospital was not. The confined space comforted him, in a way; Will had been stretched thin, his soul dissolving in the resonant prison walls, in the echoes of Hannibal’s voice, and his tiny room helped him get himself together again. He felt whole and protected here, like a child in the mother’s womb, and that feeling only receded when his host came back.

The mere sound of that voice cordially greeting Will good evening, and the apartment would suddenly start feeling like a minefield. Good thing Will was long accustomed to minefields—to the extent where they felt almost safe to him. After all, everything one had to do while walking through landmines was to open their eyes and _see_ , and let their instinct guide the way.

That was exactly what Will Graham did for a living. Or used to do, as it were.

Matthew Brown was dangerous—very, very dangerous. Nothing Will hadn’t faced before, of course, and nothing like Hannibal Lecter—a soft, pleasant, refined facade concealing a dark, cold bottomless pit, a perversion so great human mind almost refused to comprehend it. No, Matthew Brown was dangerous the way wolves were: cunning, vicious, primal, and very natural in his urge to kill. It felt almost—refreshing to see a proper, normal psychotic killer again, after all the time spent with Hannibal's voice in Will's head.

The glances Will felt on himself from time to time were wolfish, too. Hungry; chilling.

Matthew's clothes fit just a bit too loosely on Will: prison food and regime weren't exactly conductive to keeping a healthy weight. Will wasn't emaciated, far from it, but he could still count every single one of his ribs when he looked in the bathroom mirror, and his stomach was pitifully hollow. Maybe that was the reason why Matthew’s pants felt so big and rode so low on Will’s hips. His hip bones stuck out like there was nothing on them but thin papery skin.

Will knew Brown enjoyed watching him dress up in Brown’s clothing, and he even had a fair idea why. He didn’t like to think about, but it was a thing that had to be considered. Frankly, Will was not above taking advantage of it, to a reasonable extent. The only weapon he had left was himself and the gun Matthew gave him, and he intended to make full use of both.

Of course, there was a slight flaw to this plan, what with Matthew Brown being dangerously unhinged and all. Will had the misfortune to become the object of his affections because Brown saw Will as some kind of—the Übermensch, maybe, or a prophet of sorts, with himself as Will’s champion; but such infatuations were treacherous by their nature, a temple prone to crash and bury the deity under its ruins.

Brown believed Will was the Ripper, so Will would have to play the part. He wasn’t ready to relinquish Brown’s help; not yet.

Another evening came and went; Matthew passed Will slices of pizza from the box, and his fingers brushed Will’s more than once, greasy and slippery.

 

One evening Matthew’s raspy “Good evening Mr. Graham” sounded slightly more animated than ever. Will put away the laptop.

“Did something happen?” he asked.

“Not yet.” Matthew smiled and nodded at Will to follow him. His eyes glinted, and his fingers twitched slightly.

The house had a basement, damp and musty, mainly used as a junk room now. People rarely came down there, and its stuffy air smelled of dust and mould.

On the dirty, trash-littered floor, a woman lay. She was bound and gagged, and her eyes were wide with fear; she tried to get as far from Brown and Will as she could when they entered. But her eyes weren’t entirely mindless with terror, and there remained some dignity in the way she tried to hold herself.

Will recognized her. She was Kade Purnell, the FBI investigator, the one who prosecuted him so ferociously during the trial.

“Do I really deserve such a gift from you?” he asked Matthew, staring into her eyes. There was derision in them, diluted with fright. Her eyelashes were damp, but not her cheeks.

“But of course,” Matthew answered lightly. “The bailiff was a present; this one is a treat.”

A knife glimmered in the dim half-light of the basement. Matthew held it out to Will by the blade.

“I’ve been longing to see you at work,” he breathed out. “This isn’t like any of your previous tools, but I know you can do so much with just this.”

Will held the knife in his hand and stared at it, unblinking. His own eyes stared back from the gleaming steel. An insane man was grinning next to him, and a helpless woman was prostrated at his feet, at his complete mercy.

Will tried the sharp edge on his index finger. The skin gave easily like butter, small red drops bursting under the steel.

Purnell was the one who most fiercely fought for an electric chair for him. She was so determined in her efforts to see him fry.

“Why did you gag her? Do you prefer them silent?” he asked Matthew offhandedly.

“She doesn't have anything to tell that we need to hear,” Matthew waved his hand. “Do you need something else? I’m happy to provide, you know.”

“I’ll tell you what we _don‘t_ need,” Will stepped back and turned around. “Another mysterious disappearance clearly connected to my case. See, I don’t want a full-fledged hunt to go after us. We better lay low for a while, don’t do anything drastic, until the chase subsides.”

Matthew stopped smiling.

“What do you suggest we do with her?” he tilted his head, nearly birdlike. “My job doesn’t pay that well, you know, and a pet like this would be _expensive_.”

Letting her go was foolish, to say the least. Killing her was something Will very much wanted to avoid.

“There are drugs that can induce amnesia,” he said. “I’ll tell you which ones, you get them, we brainwash her and dump her somewhere near her house. We don’t need an extra body here.”

Matthew nodded, like a model student.

“Then I guess you don’t need this,” he took the knife from Will’s palm, gently, like it was breakable. Or like Will was.

Then suddenly the knife was at Purnell’s throat, Matthew holding her with one hand around her waist. The woman struggled; her muffled screams were probably loud enough to be heard from behind the closed door.

“Too much trouble, this plan of yours,” Matthew explained genially. “To be honest, I prefer the simpler methods.”

“Don’t!” Will’s voice sounded too loud in the damp walls. “Stop.”

“Why?” Matthew inquired curiously. “Don’t you want her dead, for everything she did to you, and was planning to do? I never thought you were that kind.”

The knife sank a little into Purnell’s skin, raising tiny droplets of blood—like a delicate necklace. A single flash of Matthew’s knife, and the woman would be dead, and there was nothing Will could do to prevent it.

Will was so fucking sick of pretending, of being helpless and useless.

“Have you ever _thought_ that I said the truth all this time?” he hunched slightly, ready to fight. He knew he had virtually no chances; Brown was considerably stronger, and much more brutal. That wasn’t a reason to go down without a fight, though. “That I didn’t commit those murders. And I’m not planning on committing any in the future, just so we are clear.”

Matthew’s eyes widened. Will clenched his fists.

“Ah, finally,” Matthew said genially. “I thought you’d never admit it to me.”

“… You knew.” _Of course_ he knew. Will was stupid to underestimate Brown; he already realized the man was far sharper than he let on. It was understandable to make a mistake when Brown first contacted him, but now, when Will _saw_ and _learned_ him?

“That doesn’t change anything, you know. That you are not a killer,” Matthew shrugged leisurely. “You aren’t one… yet. But you’re going to be.”

Will looked straight into his eyes as Matthew neatly, almost elegantly slit Purnell’s throat. She thrashed and gurgled, but the cut was precise and well-calculated, and the blood didn’t stain anything, except for the dirty floor.

Matthew’s eyes smiled. There was excitement in them, and affection, and a distant shadow of want. He killed the woman, and that look never changed for a single moment.

“You and me, we are the same, you see,” he continued, letting the still quivering body drop to the floor. “You are more—complex. There are too many layers you hide under. But deep inside, you are just like me. A predator.”

He took Will’s hand and dabbed the sluggishly bleeding scratch with his sleeve, then let Will’s hand fall.

“I don’t care that you are not a murderer, Will. But you will become one—soon enough. When you kill Lecter. That's what you want, isn't it?”

Will slowly nodded. It wasn’t what he wanted, and yet it was. Matthew went on:

“I'll help you. You were all alone but now you have me. You’ll always have me, whatever happens, whatever it takes. That’s what my present was about—the bailiff. You are not alone. We’re in this together.”

(He was never alone, Will wanted to protest. He had Alana; Jack; his dogs. But he knew, deep inside, that Matthew was almost right about that.)

(Almost.)

(Will’s dogs did care about him, after all.)

 

Will lay awake in the night and thought about his dogs.

He missed them so much; and it hurt to think how they must have missed him. But he knew he couldn't see them, not yet. He couldn't risk it, and he couldn't possibly bring them to Matthew's small apartment, even though he almost considered the idea in a moment of particular weakness. That would be moronic for a number of glaringly obvious reasons including, he didn't know what the landlord’s policy on pets was; a dog pack in a tiny two-room place was quite conspicuous; and besides, it was unwise to try Brown's patience any further.

Will’s eyelids slowly drooped, leaden, burdened with the weight of what his eyes saw today, and finally he fell into an uneasy sleep.

He woke up because he was not alone in the room. He didn’t open his eyes, didn’t even let his eyelashes flutter. Peeking from under his eyelids, he saw a tall slim silhouette.

Matthew stood there looking at him for what felt a long time.

Then he bent down and stroked Will’s hair with the lightest of touches. Maybe Matthew knew Will was awake; maybe Will managed to fool him, but his touch wouldn’t wake up a baby.

Cool fingers caressed Will’s cheeks, lightly brushing his lips with the fingertips, and Matthew crouched at the foot of his bed, so close Will could feel the damp warmth of his breath, and bumped Will’s knees with his head—like a great dog. A pit-bull, maybe.

It felt unsetting— but also strangely comfortable, Will suddenly realized. Probably because of the dog thoughts, he reasoned muzzily before sleep claimed him again.

Matthew’s cheek felt warm through the thin blanket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does it show in this chapter that I just want them to kiss already? I think it does. >_> Believable characterisation, where art thou?
> 
> The chapter title is borrowed from the eponymous song by Clark.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written purely to cope with my brownham feels, I don't even know if I should continue this. I don't have any clear ideas anyway—just these voices in my head, one of which tells me I want to write a deep, insightful, gazillion-word-long character study-ish fic, and another just chants: "Porn! Porn! Porn!"
> 
> Any and all comments, recommendations, and ideas would be greatly appreciated. :3
> 
> The title is from [this sweet song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fu_qknjF35c). The (kinda funky) lyrics can be found [here](http://songmeanings.com/songs/view/3530822107858820584/%20).


End file.
